Bloody Feathers
by mer solitare
Summary: GW/TR. What if Ginny went mad after CoS? Well she has... and Tom is her only companion. PG for themes and general weirdness.


Disclaimer: Ginny doesn't belong to me. Neither does Tom; they're both JK's. Delusional Ginny probably isn't mine either, so sorry if it's your idea, it wasn't intentional.  
  
  
  
  
  
"You'll ruin your pretty white dress." He whispered, caressing her cheek gently, a mere ghostly rustle. They were lying in the tall weeds next to the creek, a curved arc of waving green stalks and whispering thunderclouds. The water lapped at their clothing, turning her dress into a soggy mess of tattered lace and chiffon.  
  
"I like it. All pretty like the little flashes in my brain. Such pretty little flashes, Tom. All bright and swirly." She said in a faltering, sing-song voice. "All pretty, pretty little impulses, like little chicken feathers."  
  
'Little feathers're all clotted with blood, Virginia." He replied. "All scarlet, like your hair." He chuckled irrationally, delighted at the thought of it, of the coppery tang of it on his lips, on her hands.  
  
"Don't like them. They whisper to me, Tom, all kinds of things. They say it's my fault. Didn't want to do it; wanted to be good like Mama said. Didn't, didn't." She keened then, her screaming cries echoing in the empty field which comprised their life.  
  
"Ohh, little Ginny's crying again, crying little, little raindrops." He said illogically. He sat up, and leaned over, yanking a small dried flower out of the muddy bank and handed it to her. Little worms dropped to the ground and borrowed into the mud, safe once again in their hellish little holes.  
  
"Ohh." She stopped crying and sat up, eyes widening happily. "Pretty. Matches my dress."  
  
Tom decided not to tell her it was black.  
  
He merely stood up and waved impatiently. She stood up and took his outstretched hand, shivering at the cold touch. They walked for awhile, passing through gradually drier and browner weeds, before arriving at an ancient, black oak tree. A small wooden swing swung back and forth in the echoing wind.  
  
"Push me?" She inquired. Tom shrugged a shoulder and watched as she ran and jumped up onto the swing, waiting. Tom slowly glided to the tree and began to gently push, listening to her delighted shrieks.  
  
Higher and faster, and she was a little flash, flying through a richly painted background of disjointed whispers. She arched up wards, wind whipping at her face, cutting, stabbing.  
  
Then she fell backwards, swinging back toward Tom, waiting for his touch. And it came, searing into her head, making her cry.  
  
He merely laughed, and looking behind her, she saw his red, vacant eyes.  
  
And her little world broke into little shards of glass, cutting into her, always stabbing.  
  
But Tom laughed. And she screamed.  
  
  
  
**  
  
The girl screamed, a long, continous wail. Screaming, always the screaming. She huddled into her dingy corner, rocked slowly back and forth. Her hair fell in her face, making it impossible to tell where the vibrant red hair ended and bloody gashes began.  
  
She teetered forward to stand up, balancing on thin legs scarred with angry red slashes. She walked across her little room and stopped in front of the window. She stared out of it vacantly, brown eyes glazed. "Tom. I told you I didn't like the feathers."  
  
"But you ignored me. Didn't want you to." She splayed her hands across the window's cold surface and pressed her face against it savoring its coolness against her feverish face.  
  
"Just little swirls, all pretty in my head, Tom. All pretty."  
  
**  
  
Outside the Observation Room the group of doctors stared at the small girl inside.  
  
"Patient #471893, Ginny Weasley. Age eleven; illness: delusion and schizophrenia." One said mechanically as another quickly wrote his words in a small chart on the room's door. Completing the chart the group turned as one and walked away.  
  
  
  
Inside Ginny merely scratched her hands, watching as blood dripped down, crimson splatters on the cold white floor.  
  
And she laughed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
A/N Yeah, I know, really weird. Review and tell me if you like the while delusional Ginny deal. Heck, give me some constructive criticism too. No flames, though, I'll just use them to warm my numb feet. 


End file.
